Pumped Up Payout

The slots were there, always on, always available to the reckless, desperate, or foolish; an entire aisle of gleaming gilded machines chirping and trilling for attention with promises of riches. Regular slot machines were not the casino's main draw nor its gimmick, they were still there in their own little section for those seeking them, but for everyone else the star of the show was the pop slots. Unlike their ordinary kin, the pop slots were not pay to play, anyone could sit down and spin those reels for a cost that wouldn't come out of their pockets.

Each of the machines sat in its own little alcove or booth, the cubicle like walls on either side there just as much for privacy as to provide a splash guard. The same thinking applied to the slots themselves, easily cleaned glass screens and touch displays with protective covers replacing mechanical drums and levers, leaving no gaps where something could seep into the machine's innards or gum up the works. The addition of an RFID payment card reader would let someone collect their winnings from trying their luck from the comfort of a vinyl cushioned stool without having to fiddle about with chips, but if money was all they were after a regular slot machine could offer the same improvements without any other twists.

Play by the pump, or play 'til you pop as it tended to be known, was what the pop slots did differently, letting players skip the fees and spin the digital reels as many times as they'd like for the low low cost of hooking themselves up to a pump in the slot machine, or doing so with a casino approved proxy, pop boy, or pump girl to take the filling for them instead. Maximum potential payouts with extra zeroes at the end were the lures that encouraged potential players to let themselves be pumped up, and while the long odds of randomized outcomes served to make those paydays rare, the casino wasn't without ways to turn a profit on what seemed like a free lunch. Cameras in every machine recorded each player, joined by those peering down from the ceiling and other embedded in the partition walls to catch every angle, ostensibly for security reasons and anti-fraud measures, but also allowing for a lucrative pool of side betting too. Any player at the pop slots could be wagered on by those haunting the more exclusive betting lounges, with everything from if they'd win or go bust, quit or explode, and how many pumps it would take to pop them to what their next spin would be open to capricious bet setters. Those who made for a particularly good spectacle, usually with a titillating display or explosive finale, could have the video footage retained as part of the casino's catalogue of exclusive PPV content, with an appropriate credit to the accounts of those still intact enough to collect.

To sit down at the machine was to silently agree to such deals, part and parcel of the pages of disclaimers required to merely set foot in the lobby, let alone engage in the casino's many exotic forms of fortune seeking. Few who tested their luck at the pop slots tended to care about that part though; regardless of if it was rashness, thrill seeking, or perverse enjoyment of how the game was played, a pop slot player's world often shrank until it was just them, the machine, and the hose connecting them, but only until they were explosively brought back to reality for a few moments.

He wasn't much different in that respect – if he didn't win big then losing wouldn't really matter. The matching grey sweatshirt and sweatpants, the cheap sunglasses, the complimentary ball cap with the casino's logo emblazoned on it, all of it screamed someone down on his luck trying to blend into the background and failing at it. In a way perhaps he had failed in some manner, unlucky to live long enough that he was starting to go to seed when being young and attractive had been core to the way he'd lived up to this point. He still looked good under the baggy clothes, broad through the hips and thick through the thighs, but a slowing metabolism had piled on a chubby stomach, extra junk in the trunk, and some more weight to his once firm pecs too, leaving him soft instead of lean but still twinkish despite the extra heft . It'd only be downhill from here, being a pampered party plaything was going to fast become untenable, and worse still, did not come with a pension or retirement plan that didn't involve being broken like a toy.

That'd be irrelevant if he landed a big score though; a little bit of frugality could take even a modest jackpot a long way, and while his needs were great it was not an immediate make or break scenario, he could just as easily keep coming back to try again if today wasn't he lucky day. In a way he even had a sort of advantage, he'd long been the sort of boy toy accustomed to being inflatable entertainment, the old stretchmarks on his middle beyond the ability of rejuvenators or skin creams to banish, and that trained extra capacity meant he could play for longer, and in his estimation at least, improve his odds of scoring a big win. Plenty of others he'd known hadn't even bothered with this meagre level of planning for the future, spiralling down the rabbit hole of greater and greater indulgence and pushing themselves further and further until they'd willing gone from pump boys to pop toys pursuing what could never really be caught. The allure was real, he knew it well, and the simpleminded pleasure of seeking more in excess had brought him to his limits many times, yet he'd never been quite so far gone as to go chasing over that line, no matter how enticingly he'd been straddling it. There were other safer and simpler ways of paying tomorrow's bills, and if he'd been set on going back down the road of filling himself for fun and profit he could have just as easily started working out and doing inflation burlesque with less chance of structural integrity failure. The thought of having that many eyes on his swollen form, hungry to reach out and touch him, was definitely exciting, arousing even, but realistically he had to admit he was too hedonistic for that much effort and would rather enjoy a post-work lifestyle, and this was just as close to pumping up for fun and profit as anything.

All he had to do was have the staff fit him with a locking plug (done, and that some of them had made eyes at him while doing it was a distinct bonus), sit his plump posterior down at a machine, affix the hose, and press a button over and over again until he was either monied or full, repeating the process until he was either independently wealthy, or if bad luck caught him, a stain for the casino cleanup crew. That it wasn't his intention to do the latter didn't stop dark fantasies from bubbling up in his mind as he moved across the casino floor towards the rows of pop slots. The flashing lights, the chiming displays, the voices of other patrons murmuring in low conversation or roaring in excitement, it all rolled right off of him, part of him simply moving on autopilot while he played tempting scenarios in his head. He could see himself already at the machine, plugged in and starting to play when someone suddenly seizes him from behind, cuffing his hands to the hose stuck in his ass and using him as a free play token, groping his swelling stomach as each press of the button blows him up more and more, tightening his bulbous creaking tummy until they either scoop his winnings or finally snap him like an overtensioned elastic band.

It wouldn't ever go down like that of course, too many cameras, too much security, too much reputation on the line for the casino to let one of their guests be handled like that. To be fair they didn't much mind their patrons exploding, in many cases they even encouraged it, but only they were allowed to do it and only after you put yourself in the danger zone to boot. Fair was fair if you made it happen after all, but it could not and would not be forced like that, only you could choose to make it that kind of spectacle.

He was still free to picture it in his head though, that and more while moving up and down the rows of pop slot stalls, relying on a combination of instinct and blind luck to choose his machine for him. None of the other players paid him any mind as he passed by them, too engrossed in the sight of digital reels dancing on the screens before them or perhaps too enthralled by the growing pressure accumulating in their distended bellies. A few of them had pump girls or pop boys as proxies, one of the gamblers playing with with their swollen stand in just as much as the machine. A hint of envy flushed his cheeks at the sounds the puffy proxy made as he passed by, the muffled coos and moans of delight chasing after him down the row of stalls. That could easily be him next time, if there was even a need of a next time, hiring a cute playmate to grope, fondle, and pleasure him while the machine was busy making him into a balloon, a tantalizing possibility that only made him more flustered.

A faint scent of chemical cleaners brought brought both the daydream and his ambling to a stop in front of one machine. It was spotless, the plexiglass covers on its touch screen displays unmarred by so much as a single smudge while a factory fresh stool stood before it, beckoning him to sit down and give it a spin. Whomever had come before him here and whatever had happened to them didn't matter, this one would be the chariot that he rode to success, he could feel it. Taking the seat as his own, he shifted back and forth on it to get comfortable, the sensation of the locking plug with its valve moving inside of him with each motion an unsubtle reminder of who and what was going to be on the line here.

Reaching down to the base of the slot machine, he grabbed the all important hose from from the semi recessed storage cubby it sat in, regarding it for a moment before reaching back and pulling down his pants and panties far enough to slip it between his cheeks. There he pressed it to the plug's port, applying pressure until it clicked and then turning it to tighten and secure the connection. Someone less familiar with the intricacies of having a hose corking their ass might've needed staff help with the procedure, but not him – he could see the connection icon, a stylized balloon with a hose in it, flashing yellow in the bottom corner of the screen to tell him that the machine was detecting the hook up. It courteously waited for him to finish tightening the hose to the socket before prompting him to test it; a gentle touch of the waiting icon and the machine blew a little puff of air through the hose into his guts, then paused for a moment to calculate before sending him another pump and turning the icon green in satisfaction. The feeling of pressure building inside of him, mild as it was, started a tingle in his loins and sent a spark of excitement shooting up his spine.

He wanted more.

Part of him was disappointed the machine didn't go farther, that it didn't just malfunction on the spot and blow him up like a fucking balloon in an automatic party vendor. And why stop there – a good party should have more than one balloon, and if his machine was going to malfunction then why not all of them? All the other players patronizing the pop slots would certainly be surprised if the pumps started running and didn't stop, the cries of shock from those trying to escape, the moans of pleasure from those too far gone to care, and the thrumming rumble of the compressors running away on full filling the air around the stalls. That would be a sight for whomever was watching the cameras, customers struggling as their bellies grow, and grow, and grow, popping free of belts, shirts, and pants, swelling so very big, so very round, and so very taut. Curtains for anyone the staff couldn't extract from the predicament before that point, because then they'd start to perforate, their bright glossy stretchmarks starting to tear, and then they'd simply blow, like so many cheap overfilled condoms. Maybe someone would rupture in just the right way that pressure would flow from their abdomen into their torso; he'd never seen that himself but he'd heard about it happening and the imagined scene had lived with him ever since...

But first things first, the slot machine was beeping, demanding his attention – he'd let himself get rather distracted before he'd concluded his business with it and it wanted him to know. His hand trembled as he pulled out his payment card, tapping it to the reader point on the screen to link it; now when he inevitably won something it would go straight to his account instead of spilling all over the floor in a shower of coins or chips.

“When I win, I'm throwing a party with as many pop toys as I can get,” He murmured, promising it as much to himself as to the throbbing erection tenting his sweatpants courtesy of the visions of engorged bodies writhing in ecstasy that now haunted his mind. “A real burstday party, just for me...”

It was perhaps premature to already be thinking of celebrating and spending what he'd yet to win, but his immediate future was going to have more than enough time for him to keep indulging in idle fantasies. Playing electronic slots was not the most mentally stimulating type of gambling, far more a test of rote muscle memory than anything that would tax one's faculties. Pressing the gilded gold play bubble beneath the reels on the screen primed the machine for use, and to spin one placed their hand on the image of the lever arm and dragged it down like a vertical slider bar before releasing it. The reels would play an animation of spinning, and then fancy random number generation would determine if you won or not, and the odds of winning were no different than what you'd get with an old fashioned mechanical slot machine. Some people swore by the traditional mechanisms instead of the the sleek touch screens and mathematical calculations of the digital devices; either way it was ultimately all the same to him.

Reaching out he tapped the screen and got himself started, doing his best to banish lascivious thoughts and focus on the task at hand. The reels danced on the screen in front of him, spinning with an imitation of mach speed while the machine warbled and chimed enthusiastically, the hose depositing what would be the first of many pumps to play into him. To the left of the reels sat a list of symbols and winning combinations, the reels checking a three by three grid in the middle of the screen for 'valid' results, with part of another row displayed above and below it. This machine only checked the horizontal rows in the play area for winning combinations, not columns or diagonals as some others did. Inauspiciously, his first spin didn't net him anything Sorry, Try Again~ blinking above the reels in faux electric marquee font. The pump inside the slot machine had been whisper quiet for that first spin, he hadn't even heard it come on over the chiming and trilling of the machine's soundboard, but he'd felt it going to work on him, the pressure in his guts steadily, albeit briefly, rising the moment he'd released the slider. Not a bad consolation prize all things considered, and he'd be getting a lot more of it before he was finished.

With a grin he spun again, watching the reels blur in a kaleidoscope of colours while another stream of air made its way down the hose into him. As the reels slowed the symbols began to coalesce, lucky number sevens, silver bars, yellow pineapples, gold balloons, purple grapes, bronze pumps, and fat green dollar signs all whirling and shifting on the screen, slowing to a crawl and then a dead stop in another losing configuration. Some pop slots had what was called a 'jackpop' combination, usually a row of popped balloons or explosion signs that would usually give a player more of a pumping than they could handle when they came up, balancing the chance of instant wealth from a better payout with the risk of instantly being filled until you exploded if your luck went sour instead. None of the machines here were that gimmicky though, they were steady and predictable in how much they'd fill a player at the cost of a smaller maximum yield for a win, not leaving it to random chance if you'd suddenly find yourself pushed to capacity or beyond. If he were to pop today it'd because he'd worked at it and pushed too far, not because a mathematically randomized outcome decreed it.

He spun again, this time looking less at the reels and more at his reflection. Part of him hoped he might catch a little glimpse of it, of the subtle swell of his middle, but he was to be disappointed, his little paunch unmoved by his filling.

“Easily remedied~” He cooed, tapping the screen to stop the reels' movements. It wasn't necessary to let the animation finish playing each and every time, not when the machine had calculated his result within a faction of second when he'd spun, and as a matter of convenience he could skip right to it. A second double tap in the bottom corner of the screen brought up the player accessibility options, letting him lower the volume, turn off animations entirely, and change the spin method from a swipe to a tap. A few more presses to confirm his selections, and he was ready to continue playing; a gentle press of the digital lever and the reels flickered, flashed once, and displayed the new result while the pump pleasingly got to work on him. With the volume turned down he could now hear the whispery buzz of the pump running, and it was a pump, not just a gas cylinder as was sometimes surmised. Yet it wasn't a big one, it didn't need to be particularly large to do what the casino needed it to do to their patrons, and he personally couldn't see them springing for the extra expense of more powerful units just to blow up a bunch of gambling addicted balloons a little bit faster. He did wish a little that they could have cheaped out and skipped the stall walls dividing the spaces for each machine too, it would be 'fun' to see the other players and proxies filling up alongside him, perhaps even secretly competing with the biggest among them to see if he could match or surpass them for size.

But could I compete with someone so far gone that they inevitably explode? He wondered, imagining himself next to a suitably cute player, bellies ballooning bigger and bigger as they both frantically tap at the play icon on their screens. Would they kick me out if started stroking at the same time? Probably... He silently conceded. Maybe not if I made a good show of it, but private rooms exist for a reason, and they cost extra.

The slot machine's digital lever beckoned while he pondered, waiting patiently until he reached out and touched it once more, now increasingly distracted by the tent he was pitching in his pants, the lustful thoughts percolating in his head, and a need to watch his reflection swell. It wasn't the best frame of mind to be in for what he was there to do, and as much as he'd tell himself he was there to win a fat stack of cash, he was more and more excited and aroused by the act of playing itself; any money he made looking like an extra reward on top of that.

Old habits died hard as it turned out.

He played again, and again, and once more after that too, pressing his finger to the play lever and keeping it there as the slot machine cycled through results as quickly as it could.

Lose.
Lose.
Five dollar win.
Lose.
Try Again.
Better luck next time.
You win ten dollars.
Miss.
Play again.

The results weren't terribly encouraging for the financial ambitions he'd harboured, but he'd found something else that would keep him going, the fact that keeping the play button pressed kept the pump running continuously. Much to his delight he could feel the tell tale sensation of his middle starting to stretch, the air creeping through his insides towards his stomach, distending his abdomen little by little. His clothes were a loose and baggy fit by design to try and accommodate his somewhat paunchy figure; but that simply meant there was that much more space to fill out before he really started showing, the elastic waist of his pants hugging his growing belly bump while his shirt subtly curved out further and further, bulging by degrees. He could see it in his reflection now, the shifting sequences of symbols reduced to a backdrop for what he was really watching, his sweaty digits pressed hard against the glass screen to keep the pump gently whirring and the air steadily flowing.

Lose.
Lose.
Sorry.
No luck.
Go again.
Once more with feeling.
Try it again.

The mounting string of losses didn't matter, they didn't cost him anything but capacity, and he still had more than enough of that to spare.

“I could do this all day.” He whispered to himself, doing his best to stifle a moan. The urge to touch himself was fast becoming overwhelming, to just slip his hands into his pants and relieve himself of the desires that had him painfully hard and twitching, and perhaps clear his head a little in the process. The cameras would see though, that was the entire point of the set up, but at the same time he wasn't up on a stage putting on a show for whomever might be watching, not this time at least. That didn't mean he couldn't show off if he wanted to either. Biting his lip for a moment, he shifted in his seat, leaning back until his shirt rode up over the expanding circumference of his swelling belly. “God, I'm already starting to look fucking huge...” He muttered, trailing off as he brought his free hand up to trace along the waistband of his sweatpants. The extra pounds had gone a long way to making his tummy naturally protrude, and now augmented with air he looked positively gravid. Gravid and growing larger by the moment as he kept his finger on the screen, running the pump regardless of the outcomes.

Lose.
Lose some more.
Lose x 3.
Lose x 4.
Lose x 5. Combo Breaker - Win a Dollar and then follow it up by Losing Again.
No Joy.
Burn out.
Thanks for Playing.

If the pump could run any faster he'd have willed it so, the reflected sight of his bulbous belly jutting out further and further more intoxicating to him than the strongest of stiff drinks. His shirt now rode up over the ballooning mound without his assistance, bunching up beneath his pecs, his pants slipping down to almost his groin and exposing just a hint of crimson panties on his hips, the taut elastic band of the pants cradling his gut. The bullient dome had distended out a full eight or nine inches now, not quite perfectly round but akin to a basket ball compressing as it hits the court, an ovoid circle reading to spring out even further if only he'd let it. In spite of his progress he was neither totally full or entirely taut yet, the air filling his guts like an inflatable pool noodle without reaching and filling his stomach proper, years of stretching himself out like this meant he had, or at least felt like he had, plenty of give left to offer up.

No creaking or stretchmarks yet, He told himself. I can go farther, I'll be waddling out of here like a bloated sow, just see if I don't~ Wrapped up in his panties and leaking just enough arousal to mark his pants with a wet patch, his penis throbbed angrily like a ballpark frank threatening to burst its casing and spew everywhere, each twitch of his hips smearing the the growing wetness along his underbelly.

“Fuck. Fuck. I need to pop so bad.” He didn't mean it like that of course, not in the way any expectant eyes on the other side of the cameras might expect him to bust at the very least. All it would take right now would be for someone to come up behind him, wrap their arms around him, and squeeze; the pressure on his prostate would make him pop his cork right there in his pants, and he knew he'd squeal like a little bitch too. In the absence of that he'd just have to get bigger, to swell until the air pressure set him off without a single stroke of his cock.

Lose.
Lose.
Lose.
On a Cold Streak Now.
You'd go bust if you were paying for this.
Another spin another loss.
Swing and a miss.
Keep it up and you'll win a prize sooner or later.
Lose.
Miss.
Fail.
You can stop any time you want, right?

Maybe he could maybe he couldn't. Maybe even if a million dollar spin happened he'd keep playing to win an entirely different prize. However much 'enough' was, he was sure he'd know it when he got there. In the meantime, now he was starting to reach a point that he'd call full; his innards grumbling, gurgling, and even squeaking as air shifted and squeezed through him, trickling into his stomach and pooling there while the pressure pressed up on his diaphragm, shortening his breath each time he inhaled. Holding his breath, even for a moment, made him feel like he was going to explode, and he was certainly starting to look the part of an overfilled and straining balloon. He gut reached almost a full foot into his lap, skin creasing and reddening along his flanks between his ribs and his hips and around his taut shallow navel.

I'm a fucking blimp now! He thought to himself gleefully. If I lean forward just a little, it makes it look like it reaches my knees! The sight delighted him, though the effort sent little bug bite twinges of pain racing across the enormous orb of his belly, shooting along the curvaceous circumference as if he were about to split open. He'd like to think he'd been bigger than this before of course, but now he was out of practice and pushing himself too hard, much more and he'd blow out like a popboi trying to beat the beach ball challenge. Yet even so, he wasn't willing to simply call it quits, he wanted more, needed more, and had to have it, the consequences a problem for his future self.

Lose.
You get bigger.
Lose again.
And bigger.
Another loss.
And bigger still.
Lose, but win a stomach full of air.
Lose, but win at being a pumpslut balloon.
Lose, but win some stretchmarks.
Lose.
Bigger.
Lose.
Rounder.
Lose.
Tighter.
Lose, and if you can't stop you're going to pop.

The air inside of him shifted, now he was full, his stomach bulging and aching within the great tumescent curve that ran from his pelvis to just below his pecs. He tried to, and failed to stifle the belch that forced its way out of him, pulling his hand off the screen and clutching at his middle as he dry heaved and retched out some of the overwhelming pressure.

“Too much.” He moaned. “Too fucking much.” It was something of a miracle he hadn't torn something with his recklessness, just panting too hard made him feel like it might make his party balloon guts perforate or blow out his belly like a macabre pinata. Worse still, he'd barely won enough to cover the cost of grabbing a burger from a drive through, let alone pay for being stitched back together should he finish with a bang. As it was he was going to have to disconnect himself very carefully and gingerly waddle somewhere he could safely deflate; he was in no condition to travel when a mere jostle might paint him all over his surroundings.

“I'll pack it in, I just... need to finish up first.” The words were almost as much for the unseen phantom audience watching through the cameras as they were for himself, a statement of intent that the show wasn't quite over yet. He still had to deal with the raging hardon threatening to tear his panties, now so stiff that he'd swear it was going to bruise if he didn't get it down soon.

If I'm done playing it doesn't matter if they kick me out for playing with myself instead, I just need to be quick about it. His belly heaved gently with each short breath, the reflection of his turgid orb on the slot machine's glossy surface revealing every detail to him, from the glistening rose red tiger stripes of the stretchmarks creasing him to his bottomed out and ready to pop navel. This has got to be a personal best. He thought to himself, squirming in his seat and watching his massive middle move with him. Maybe even the biggest I've ever been. He let his hands roam across the drum tight expanse of flesh, savouring both the electric tingle of the touch and the burning ache of being so colossally overfull, one hand tracing an inquisitive spiral around his belly button while the other played lower and lower, cradling the great globe before sliding down past his straining waistband and burrowing into his damp panties to grip his pulsing manhood.

If only this would blow up too... He mused, drawing as deep a breath as he dared before starting to pump his shaft. The first stroke sent a ripple of raw ecstasy through his nervous system, drawing a whimper from his throat and leaving him shuddering, legs jittering and his free hand clutching at his distended curves once more. The second hit him harder, his thighs clenching as he swayed in his seat, reaching desperately for something to lean on and fighting the urge to curl himself around his titanic tummy and hump it for all he was worth. From where his seat was he couldn't reached the side walls of the pop slot's stall walls, but he could lean forward enough to put his hand on the machine itself for support, putting just enough pressure on his belly to gently squeeze it against his legs like an exercise ball. Pain and pleasure flared through his middle in equal measure, the extra weight weight on it causing him to gasp and gag as it almost forced more air up and out his throat, at the same time teasing another jet of wheyish precum from his erection.

Close but no cigar, play again!

He was getting bigger, the pressure within him mounting once more as his belly struggled to push out even further beneath him, his eyes flicking up to the slot machine screen where he'd put his hand on the play button. His body cried out for him to stop, to pull his hand back before it all became too much to bear, yet he did not. Moaning through gritted teeth he stroked himself all the quicker, racing his own destruction to the point of no return as if shooting his load before he burst was all he hand to worry about. The slot machine certainly didn't care, nor did the bustling casino about him, nor the eyes on the cameras watching him gamble with his corporeal integrity; so far as they were concerned if he wanted to play until he popped, well, that's what the pop slots were there for.

Bigger, and bigger, and bigger his belly swelled, his gaze fixed upon it like a predatory bird; each fresh spasm of agony matched by a surge of sadistic pleasure, the creaking, groaning, and rumbling of his turgid tummy ringing in his ears with the pounding of his pulse and the sounds of his laboured breathing.

It's past my knees, it's past my fucking knees!

With a grunt he inhaled and held his breath while puffing out his cheeks, his reflected duplicate matching the action, quivering and twitching with the barely restrained tension of frantic masturbation. Something had to give, and with each passing second it looked more and more inevitable that it would be him. The thought of it drove him wild, his eyes watering as he beheld his navel flared and jutting out, inverted like a cheap plastic thimble while his stretchmarks spread from his spine to almost the very peak of his airbag belly, just as close to splitting his drum tight hide as he was to finally erupting.

“Ngh... I'm gonna...” He whimpered, his held breath escaping and his words trailing off before he could utter them. “Gonna... Gonna... P... Puh... Pah...” he stuttered the last word, unable to spit it out, a convulsive paroxysm of delight, agony, joy, and release tearing through him and setting his nerves alight. Wracked with shudders of pleasure and spasms of pain from his head to his toes he came undone, spurting ejaculate all over his pants, his panties, his belly, his legs, and the stool underneath him, one hand on his pulsating penis and the other cradling the immense tumescent orb of his belly. A wordless moan spilled from his lips as he shivered in his seat and arched his back, thrusting his belly forward. His eyes snapped opened as he felt it, how the motion overdrew his thin straining flesh in a manner that called for give he simply didn't have anymore. Something split inside of him, perforating and venting pressure into his abdomen, placing the full load of his pressurized contents on his thin flesh and almost translucent hide.

It was too much.

For a second his belly stretched just a hair further, then burst like and overfilled beach ball, the pneumatic *POP* echoing through the pop slot stalls. Crimson splashed on the slot machine, his head spinning and his body going limp, tumbling backwards off his perch like a broken doll.

Big Winner! $10,000! Big Winner!
Play again!
Play again!